Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

died in the ambulance after driving into one of the largest L ive Oak tree s on Airlie Drive , just outside Airlie Gardens -- a tree that m ight have been planted by Mrs. Pembroke Jones herself. I knew Daddy had been dipping into the spiced eggnog all afternoon, but he had seemed perfectly sober when I waved him out of the driveway.
    After an appropriate interval of formal mourning, I returned to Parsons to attack school projects with a vengeance, and four years later graduated at the top of my class. Mama’s family, the Chastains, were an old Savannah family. I enrolled in the Master’s program in Historic Preservation at SCAD, the Savannah College of Art and Design, and lived with my Aunt Ruby in the family home for two years. Old Savannah with its Queen Anne and Italianate style homes had been my classroom.

    I tuned out Melanie as she skillfully managed her caller and felt a warm cozy glow because we were together again. Absently, she twirled a silky strand of auburn hair around her finger. Her face was creamy ivory, a perfect oval, just like Mama's.
    How I had worshiped my big sister when we were growing up. Melanie was everything I wanted to be: pretty and popular, outgoing and smart. I always felt like I'd never catch up. I had turned to art, filling my sketch pad with castles and cottages, gabled roofs and rose-covered picket fences. I excelled in art classes. M elanie excelled in life. Everything she touched turned to gold. And, oh, the men she’d had.
    Which led me to thoughts of the handsome Wilmington PD homicide detective I’d met just hours earlier . Nicholas Yost. I wondered if he was single . I hadn't seen a wedding ring on his finger, but that was no guarantee.
    Then the full horror of the morning’s events came rushing back and even with the sun beating down on top of my head, I shivered , thinking of the mayhem that must have occurred in that once glorious mansion. I wanted my big sister to get off the phone and hug me, to tell me everything was going to be all right. Someone had killed those people, someone I might even know.

2

    That morning had begun like any other day in the past two weeks since we’d begun restoring the Campbell mansion. I parked my mother's old station wagon at the curb on Orange Street behind Willie Hudson's row of trucks and Jon Campbell's Jeep.
    The mansion rose before me on the other side of an ornate wrought iron fence. In 1840 the house had been as impressive as the large, elegant mansions of Williamsburg, and I suspect that is what Reginald Campbell, the original owner, had in mind when he ’d built it . In those days, the house would have symbolized a standard of great wealth; it would have proclaimed to one and all that a man of substance lived behind its solid, thick brick walls.
    The house was Federal in style with double-hung sash windows arranged symmetrically around a center entrance. The windows were bracketed with louvered shutters. The semicircular Greek Revival por tico sported a crown-like roof and decorative columns. An imposing archway surrounded the front door. Rising two stories high, the house was sheltered by a low-pitched roof with a balustrade. It was a magnificent example of late-Federal architecture.
    But Campbell House was now in very bad condition . M ortar crumbled between the bricks, leaving gaping holes ; the trim paint was blistered and peeling . One of the second floor window panes had been pierced , shards of glass radiating from a small round hole. Inside, things were worse.
    The wrought iron gate was propped open with a brick. I was about to step through it when someone called, "Miss! Miss!" I turned to see a tiny woman with frizzy gray hair waving to me from the front porch of the cottage across the street. "Wait," she cried and des cended the steps cautiously, crossed her lawn, then shuffled across the street.
    " Mercy ," she panted as she reached my side, one hand pressed over her heart.
    "Are you OK , ma'am?"
    Her gray head bobbed up and down. "Just let me catch my breath."
    I studied her face. Good bones supported thin skin well. He r eyes were blue. I suspected once they had been bright blue but now they were faded. Still they were lively and sharp.
    "I'm Ellen Burns from across the street." She pointed with her chin to a small white clapboard coastal cottage with a broad front porch.
    "Ashley Wilkes," I said, extending my hand. Clasping her hand in mine was like catching a bony trembling bird.
    "You're remodeling their